There are very few things in life that I love as much as writing. There are even fewer that are able to provide me with a solace when I feel as if I might go stark raving mad. This psychosis is a common effect on New Yorkers I believe. It's hard to live in a city of congestion, filth, murder and bitchiness without feeling as if your mind might implode at least once a week.
Most often, for myself, it is often akin to exhaustion, unfolding for me in a distinct set of stages: sleepiness, heaviness under the eyes accompanied by a loss of interest, followed by intense rage.
I write to ward of my desire to bark at customers at work when they asked what a novel is or if non-fiction means it's "not real". I write to prevent myself from falling asleep on the train. I write to prevent my coworkers from speaking to in the lunch room. I write because at times stringing words together often is the only way I can keep the little blue furry people quiet.. But if I didn't live in NYC, I probably would still write, even if the furry people took up house elsewhere.
